It had not been the wedding night Brogan had been envisioning for the last two weeks. Though his groin ached with desire for his new bride, he wanted her to be awake and fully alert when they finally consummated their marriage.

There were times when being an honorable man was painful. Especially when he slept next to her, breathing in her scent — a blend of flowers he could not name — and listening to her soft breaths. The night was made even more painful when twice he woke to find her round derriere pressed against his loins, and once with her head in the crook of his arm.

A man could only take so much temptation.

Dawn came and went and still she slept. He remembered well those days when he himself had drunk far too much. Mornings were usually a blend of regret and upset stomach. Believing she would wake feeling the same way he used to, he decided it best to leave her be. There would be time for loving later. Hopefully as soon as the evening meal was over.

Reluctantly, he left the bed, making sure to pull the fur around her shoulders. He pulled dark blue trews and an even darker blue tunic from his trunk. After he dressed, he added wood to the fire, took one longing look at his sleeping bride, and left the chamber.

Because he had anticipated a much different wedding night, he had given his men this day to do with as they please. There was no sense in destroying their hopes now, just because he was not now basking in the afterglow of a night of loving his new bride.

The gathering room had already been put back to rights from the feast of last eve, the floors swept and new rushes laid. Flowers still hung from the beams, but other than that, there was no sign a feast had even occurred.

As he stood in the middle of the large space, he heard voices fast approaching. When he turned, Ian, Rose, Alec and Leona were coming down the stairs.

“Och!” Rose declared as she bounced her babe on her hip. “We did no’ think to see ye before we left!”

Ian gave him an affectionate slap to his back. “Ye look as though ye have no’ slept,” he said with a wink and a grin. “I wonder why that be?”

The last thing Brogan wanted to do was explain his wedding night to his brother.

He patted the top of John’s head. “Ye take good care of yer mum and da, aye, laddie?” he said, affectively ignoring Ian’s jest.

Tears welled in Rose’s eyes. “Ye will no’ believe this, but ye shall be missed,” she told Brogan.

He quirked a brow, tempted he was to say something sarcastic. Instead, he said, “I will miss all of ye as well.”

“Mayhap ye could come home fer Christmas Tide,” Rose suggested with a good deal of hope.

They discussed the possibility for a time before Alec declared ’twas time to leave. “We wish ye and Mairghread all the best,” he said warmly. “May ye and she be as happy as Leona and me.”

Brogan thanked them and led them out of the gathering room, down the stairs, and into the courtyard where their horses and the men who had accompanied them were waiting.

Rose handed John off to Ian and turned back to look at Brogan. “I mean what I said, Brogan. Ye will be missed. But I be verra happy ye have married. Ye will be good fer her,” she said before wrapping her arms around his waist in an affectionate embrace.

Before he could ask what she meant by ye will be good fer her, Ian said, “Come, Rose. There be the promise of rain in the air. I do no’ wish to be caught up in it.”

Rose swiped a tear from her cheek with the tips of her fingers and said, “Please, send word if ye need anythin’, anythin’ at all.”

While Leona held the bairn, Ian helped his wife to mount first, then handed the babe up to her. He went back to Brogan, hugged him, and said, “Ye will do well here. Send word if ye need anythin’, anythin’ at all.”

Brogan bit his cheek to keep from laughing, for Ian had just said what Rose had. “Thank ye, me brother. And should ye need me, do no’ hesitate to ask.”

Ian gave a quick nod before climbing up behind Rose. He wrapped his plaid around her and their babe and gave a quick kiss to the top of her head.

“We shall see ye come October,” Alec said as he stepped forward with an extended arm. “Reginald has agreed to purchase barley from us.”

That was news to Brogan, but then, he had been too busy with all the activities of yesterday to even begin thinking about barley, or agreements. “’Tis good to ken,” Brogan said as he wrapped his hand around Alec’s forearm. “Ye take care of Leona and send word when she has the babe, aye?”

Leona gave Brogan a warm embrace. “We wish ye all the best,” she said before turning away.

Brogan watched as Leona and Alec mounted. He stood in the courtyard for a long while as he watched his family and friends leave through the non-existent wall, where a gate should have stood.

There would be no time to spend missing them for there was far too much work to be done here.

* * *

He’d been too late for the morning meal. With a growling stomach he went in search of the kitchen in hopes of begging for something to break his fast.

As in most keeps, the kitchens were set apart from the rest of the keep. These were only slightly different in that a long covered walkway connected the kitchen to the main building. He thought back to Mrs. McCurdy, the woman who had served as Mackintosh cook when he was growing up. If you missed a meal for any reason other than death or severed limb, you would have to wait to fill your belly until the next meal was served. He hoped the Mactavish cook was not thusly inclined or nearly as frightening.

He stepped into the large space and nearly leapt with joy at the smells coming from within. ’Twas alive with busy servants undoubtedly preparing the nooning meal. A young lass of mayhap four and ten was the first to notice him. Her eyes grew wide as she bobbed a curtsey. “M’laird,” she said with a quavering voice. One by one the rest of the people stopped what they were doing to look at him.

“Good morn,” he said with a slight bow.

In the center of the room, at a long table, stood mayhap the skinniest, tallest man Brogan had ever seen. Mayhap no more than forty years of age, his light brown hair was cut close to his scalp. With a clean-shaven face, a dimple in his chin, and a large, hawkish nose that sat between dark brown eyes, he was, to say the least, a most peculiar looking man. “M’laird,” he said as he put down the large knife he was using to slice meat.

“Good morn,” Brogan said once again. “I ken I be late for the mornin’ meal,” he began as he continued to look about the room for someone who might possibly be the keep’s cook. “But I thought, mayhap, I could get a bit of bread and cheese to break me fast.”

“Of course,” the skinny man said. “I shall send Sarah out with a tray, if ye’d like to eat in the gatherin’ room. Or up to yer chambers mayhap?”

Brogan offered him a sincere smile. “If it be no’ too much trouble,” he said. “Unless the cook here is like the one where I grew up.” He chuckled at memories of Mrs. McCurdy. “If ye were late fer any meal, she would chase ye out of her kitchens with a broom. ’Tis how I learned to run fast and never be late to sup.”

The hard lines of the man’s face softened. “Sounds like me auld grandminny,” he said as he wiped his hands on a drying cloth hanging from his belt.

Brogan stepped forward. “I be Brogan Mackintosh,” he said.

“We ken who ye be,” the man said. “Everyone here kens who ye be,” he said.

“Aye,” Brogan said. “I hope to learn everyone’s names in time. Mayhap, ye could introduce me to the cook and rest of the staff.”

The man tried valiantly not to laugh at Brogan. But the rest of the staff could not resist a chuckle or giggle. He turned around and glared at each of them. “Ye’re lookin’ at him,” he said. “I be Lowrens Mactavish, the cook.”

’Twas not as if Brogan had never met a male cook before. Still, he was a bit surprised by the presence of one here. “’Tis me pleasure to meet ye, Lowrens,” Brogan said. “And I shall do me best never to be late fer a meal again.”

Lowrens gave a slight nod and went back to his food preparations. “The gatherin’ room or yer chamber, m’laird?”

“The gatherin’ room will be fine,” Brogan said. “And I be no’ yer laird. Brogan be fine.”

The entire room came to an abrupt halt. “We could no’ do that, m’laird,” Lowrens said with wide eyes.

“I am neither laird nor chief,” Brogan replied.

Lowrens gave a quick glance over his shoulder, as if to warn his people it mattered not what Brogan said. They would all show him the respect he deserved simply by being Mairghread’s husband. Turning back to Brogan, he said, “We shall have a tray brought to ye anon.”

Brogan thanked him and left the kitchens to wait in the empty gathering room.

* * *

With his stomach full, he went in search of his men. According to the scullery maids, they had been given quarters in the armory.

The armory sat on the northeastern side of the keep. ’Twas a short, squat building made of wood, which looked to have been erected within the last year or two. The edge of the thatched roof met him near the center of his chest. He wondered how on earth a man was able to stand upright in it, for it looked to have been built for children and not grown men.

It took several moments before he found the entrance, in the back of the building. He had to take a few steps down in order to reach the low door. Whoever had designed the building apparently didn’t give one thought to an easy exit.

One quick look around the empty space told him if he were forced to live in such a cramped space, he’d go mad. It was dark and smelled of dampness. Sections had been carved into the walls and covered with thin mattresses. Eight spaces in all and not a one appeared big enough for his men.

What stunned him most, however, was the fact there was not a weapon to be found anywhere within. Not so much as a dirk or an arrow or a bow.

If he hadn’t seen their rolled up pallets and other belongings stacked neatly against the far wall, he would have believed someone was playing a prank. Sadly, they weren’t. Undoubtedly, he would hear his men’s complaints at the noonin’ meal. That was, if they didn’t seek him out sooner.

First there was no outer wall to offer any protection from invading forces. Now, he was discovering the so-called armory was not fit enough to house more than a dozen small men. And it was completely void of any weapons.

Even the Macintosh and McLaren clan his brother now ruled had better supplies and sleeping quarters than this place.

Determined to find out why the Mactavishes felt no need for even the simplest forms of protection, he went in search of Reginald.

* * *

Reginald Mactavish’s office was nothing more than an alcove located in the rear of the keep at the end of a long, dark corridor. The space was so small, it didn’t warrant a door and was barely wide enough to hold the small table and chair within. Brogan imagined the poor man had to either crawl under or over the table in order to get to his seat.

Reginald stood when he saw Brogan. “Good morn to ye, laird,” he said with a slight inclination of his head. There was no warmth or regard in either his tone or his eyes.

“Good morn to ye,” Brogan returned the greeting.

Brogan glanced around the tiny confines of the alcove. “Be this truly your office?”

“Aye, ’tis in fact me office,” Reginald said dryly.

Though ’twas entirely possible the man had chosen this space for the solitude it offered, he had to wonder how the man could do his job effectively. “I mean no offense, but be there a reason why ye are so far removed from the rest of the keep?” Brogan asked.

“I go where I am told,” he replied.

There was something off about his tone, as if there was more he wished to say but dared not.

“I wonder if ye would take a walk with me,” Brogan said. “There be much I wish to learn about the day-to-day runnin’ of the keep.”

Reginald pushed his shoulders back, finding insult where none was meant. “I have been runnin’ this keep fer nigh on ten years now. I suppose ye will be wantin’ to make many changes now, and I be one of them, aye?”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Brogan leaned in. “I never said, nor did I insinuate such. I merely want to do what I can to help me wife. She is chief of this clan and ’tis me duty to help her wherever I can.”

Thunderstruck, Reginald was momentarily at a loss for words. With raised brows and yawning mouth, he stammered for a moment before he was finally able to speak. “Our lady? Chief of the clan?”

“If what I am told is true, then aye, she is the rightful chief of this clan. Unless me information is incorrect.” Until this moment, there hadn’t been a doubt in his mind that Mairghread was the rightful heir and chief. But mayhap Reginald knew something he didn’t.

Reginald was quiet for a long moment before his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. “Aye, ye be right, laird. She be the rightful heir and chief.”

“But?” Brogan asked.

“She has been grievin’ for more than three years, ye ken. Her uncle stepped in—” he paused, no doubt trying to choose his words carefully. “Aymer Mactavish stepped in after that awful night and he has been actin’ as chief ever since.”

Brogan studied him closely for a moment. “Do ye no’ think she has been grievin’ long enough? Mayhap it be time she takes over?”

“Ye have no’ yet met her uncle, have ye, laird?” Reginald asked with a good deal of caution.

He had to admit that he hadn’t. “I am no’ a man to make assumptions,” Brogan said. “But need I worry that Aymer will no’ take the change well?”

“I will no’ speak ill of our lady or her uncle.”

Brogan had to admire the man’s loyalty. However, he was smart enough to know that sometimes, loyalty could be misplaced. “I am no’ askin’ ye to,” he replied. “Yer loyalty to yer lady is admirable. I only wish to help her and the clan.”

“And if the Mactavish disagrees?” he asked with a raised brow.

“If ye be referring to Mairghread as the Mactavish, then her opinion is of great importance. But if ye be referrin’ to Aymer as the Mactavish, I would recommend ye stop givin’ him a title he has no right to.” Though he had yet to meet Aymer Mactavish, what he did know of the man, he didn’t like. “I am no’ as interested in Aymer’s opinions as much as I am yers.”

Puzzled, Reginald cocked his head to one side. “Me opinions?” he asked.

Brogan offered him a warm smile. “Any chief worth his salt will tell ye that a good steward is just as important as a good chief. I ken it be yer good work that keeps the clan runnin’.”

Pleased with Brogan’s compliment, Reginald sat a bit taller and smiled. “I do me best, laird.”

“Please, do no’ call me laird. I be yer lady’s husband. I have no title.”

“So ye’ll be takin’ the Mactavish name?” Reginald asked with a devious smile.

“Nay,” Brogan returned his smile. “Just as I would no’ insist she take mine.”

’Twas apparent he liked his answer as much as his previous compliment. His lips curved into a warm smile. “Then let us walk together. Step back please.”

Brogan took a few steps away. Reginald shoved one corner of the table forward, stepped around it, before shoving it back into place. Brogan chuckled.

“I wondered how ye got behind it,” he admitted.

Reginald gave him a shrug of indifference as he led him down the corridor.

“Would ye no’ do better to have an office closer to the center of the keep?” Brogan asked as he gave a glance back toward the alcove.

“At one time, it was,” Reginald told him. “But the Mactavish—” he stopped and corrected himself. “Aymer took me office as his own and moved me to the alcove.”

“And there was no other, better place to move ye?” Brogan asked.

Reginald remained quiet. Undoubtedly, he did not trust Brogan enough to speak his mind freely. An intelligent man is oft the most quiet, or so Brogan believed.

“If we were able to procure ye a bigger office, one in closer proximity to the rest of the keep, would ye be offended?” Brogan asked as he clasped his hands behind his back.

“I am but a lowly servant, m’laird. I go where I am told.”

Brogan was growing frustrated with how the man spoke in circles. “Reginald,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I will never ask ye to speak ill of anyone. But when I ask fer yer opinion, I expect ye to give me an honest one. I will accept nothing short of complete honesty from ye.”

Reginald said nothing as they made their way down the corridor.

“And ye are far from a lowly servant. Ye be the steward here. Ye ken this keep better than anyone, I would imagine.”

“I take me duties quite seriously, m’laird. Still, I be yer servant, nothin’ more.”

Brogan came to an abrupt halt and pinned the man in place with a hard glare. “If ye call me laird one more time, I shall reduce ye to cleanin’ chamberpots for the next year.”

Reginald raised one bushy brow, but continued to remain mute on the matter.

“I imagine, that if we work together, and are honest with one another, we could potentially be strong allies. Mayhap even friends.”

His other brow went up. “Friends?”

“Me father is chief of Clan Mackintosh. He considers his steward one of his closest friends. Loves him like a brother. So aye, Reginald, me hope is that we can someday be friends.”

They stepped out of the keep and into the large, open courtyard. A breeze blew in from the west. It leant a crispness, a cleanliness to the air.

Their boots scraped lightly over the cobblestones whilst Reginald explained the workings of the keep. A group of women were huddled together, talking as they watched children playing nearby. Brogan heard the faint echo of a smithy banging a hammer against his anvil floating in from origins unknown.

“We have three and forty people who live within the keep. Save for our lady and her uncle, and now ye, they all be servants. The cook, the scullery maids, and the like.”

To Brogan’s way of thinking, it seemed like an awfully lot of people to take care of Mairghread and her uncle. But he kept his opinion on the matter to himself.

“Ye’ve met our stable master, Seamus. He lives in the tack room there, but sups within the keep. He has two younger lads who help him do those things he can no longer do.”

Brogan listened intently as Reginald continued to give him the rundown of daily life here. “We have nearly three hundred clanspeople. We have farmers, weavers, and even a few whisky makers. All in all, we do well.”

Reginald led him to the rear of the keep. At seeing the armory, Brogan asked, “Pray tell, why the armory seems built for children? And why be there no weapons?”

“Ye would have to ask the — Aymer,” was Reginald’s reply.

“He be no’ here,” Brogan reminded him. “Ye have me word that whatever ye tell me will remain in strictest confidence.”

Even with Brogan’s oath to keep whatever was said betwixt them, betwixt them, Reginald was still reluctant to answer. “Accordin’ to Aymer, ’twas built as a disguise of sorts. Any potential raiders would no’ look twice at such a building.”

Though that might seem a good idea in theory, it lacked any practicality. “And the lack of weapons?”

“They were moved to a safer location, by Aymer’s order.”

Safer location? A lot of good weapons would do if no one could get to them.

* * *

“What other surprises do ye have in store fer me?” Brogan asked as they passed by the granary.

Reginald shrugged a shoulder. “Many, mayhap,” he said.

As they passed by a corral filled with horses, Brogan asked, “Ye do breed the finest horseflesh, aye?”

“That we do,” Reginald said proudly as they stopped to admire the animals. One came forward to nuzzle against Reginald’s chest. He patted the horse and spoke to it affectionately.

“Tell me,” Brogan said as he leaned against the top rail. “Why is there no outer wall here?”

Reginald’s fond smile toward the horse faded almost instantly.

“Let me take a guess and say ’twas Aymer’s good plan?” He felt he already knew the answer.

Reginald let loose a heavy breath of frustration. “Aye, ’twas Aymer’s good plan.”

Brogan shook his head, afraid to learn the why of it. “What, pray tell, was the reason fer removin’ the wall? Especially after what happened the night Mairghread’s husband and child were killed.”

Reginald pushed away from the corral and began walking toward where the wall had once stood. “He removed it before the raid. Six months before.”

“Good, lord!” Brogan exclaimed. “And he did no’ see fit to replace it after?”

“Let me explain it to ye,” Reginald said as he clasped his hands behind his back. “A month before Mairghread married James, her father died. During that time, some stones came loose in a section of the wall. Aye, ’twas an old wall. Decades old. But instead of repairin’ it, as we have done in years past, he ordered the entire wall be taken down and rebuilt.”

Brogan looked around but could find no signs that any building was taking place. “That makes no’ a bit of sense,” he replied.

From Reginald’s grim expression, he agreed.

“And has he said when he plans to rebuild that wall?” Brogan asked.

“Nay, he has no’. And we be under strict orders no’ to ask.”

Brogan mulled the situation over in his mind. He was not the chief of this clan. His wife was. Ultimately, the decision to rebuild the wall should be hers. But after all the wine she had drunk the night before, he seriously doubted she’d be in any condition today to make such a decision. “As husband to yer chief,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I believe she would agree with me that a wall is verra important to the safety of this clan.”

“Ye can say that, can ye? After only a day of bein’ married?” Reginald asked, dubiously.

“Aye, I can.”

They reached what was left of the outer wall and climbed over it. They were several yards away from the cliff, overlooking the ocean. Gentle waves rolled against the rocky shoreline, splashing over boulders and jagged rocks that were as old as time.

“What happened to the stones from the original wall?” Brogan asked.

“Yer lookin’ at it,” Reginald replied.

Confused, Brogan quirked one brow. He studied Reginald for a long moment. The man was staring longingly at the sea. Then it hit Brogan profoundly. “Ye jest,” he replied, his voice low and breathy.

“Nay, I do no’ jest.”

Brogan turned and walked to the edge of the cliff. Once glance over the edge was all it took to prove his assumption.

On the jagged rocks below, he could see countless stones. Stones that had once made up the wall that encompassed the holding. Many had broken into smaller pieces. Others, over time, had been washed into the sea.

“The bloody bastard had them all tossed into the sea.”

* * *

Brogan had to tamp down his burning rage. How could any man leave his clan so exposed? How could a man remove the one thing that kept invaders at bay? He decided then and there, that when it came to the safety of this clan, he was not going to wait to discuss the matter with his wife or her uncle.

“Reginald, my man, we are goin’ to rebuild that wall,” he said as he stomped away from the edge.

Reginald was in hot pursuit. “Without Aymer’s permission or order?”

Brogan stopped abruptly. “Aymer is no’ the chief of this clan. Me wife is. And it will be to the benefit of all, if everyone starts believin’ it. I do no’ give a rat’s arse what Aymer wants. We will begin this verra day to make this clan and this keep safe again.”

Reginald was beyond pleased. “I have a feelin’ most will be agreeable to Mairghread takin’ her rightful place,” he said as he stepped in beside Brogan.

“Most?” Brogan inquired gruffly.

“Some are loyal to Aymer, though I do no’ ken rightly why.”

“Fear, mayhap?” Brogan offered.

Reginald thought on it for a long moment. “Aye, many are fearful of Aymer,” he admitted.

Brogan came to a stop, placed his hands on his hips and faced Reginald. “Ye have me permission to always speak yer mind, whether it be on Aymer, me wife, or the runnin’ of this keep.”

He wasn’t sure what to make of Reginald’s blank expression. It would, he imagined, take time before the man would be able to trust him. ’Twas best, he reckoned, to lead first by example.

“Come, Reginald,” Brogan said, resuming his quick pace.

“Where?”

“To make plans fer our new wall and guard towers.”

Reginald smiled, showing almost straight white teeth. “I should like ye to meet someone first,” he told him. “Then we shall make our plans.

* * *

Moments later, they were approaching the blacksmith’s barn. ’Twas a tall, wide structure, with two large doors pulled open to let fresh air in and the heat out. The previous clanging had stopped and now an eerie silence fell over the place.

“Iarainn!” Reginald called out from the entrance.

Moments later, a very pretty woman, with dark brown hair plated around her scalp, appeared from the shadows. She wore a heavy apron over tunic and trews, a combination Brogan found odd, for a woman.

With an amused grin, Reginald introduced them to one another. “Iarainn, this be our new laird, Brogan Mackintosh,” he said. “Brogan, I would like ye to meet our smithy, Iarainn Mactavish.”

Astounded, ’twas all Brogan could do to keep his chin from hitting the ground. Very few things surprised him anymore, but this? “’Tis a pleasure to meet ye,” he finally managed to say.

“We met last eve,” Iarainn told him. “At yer weddin’ feast.”

Brogan searched his mind for the memory.

“Of course, I was no’ wearin’ me apron or trews,” she said with a smile.

Of course she wouldn’t have been, he mused. “I fear I met many people last eve,” he told her. “But ’tis a pleasure to meet ye again.” He offered her a slight bow at his waist.

An awkward silence filled the air. Reginald had his hands clasped behind his back as he rocked back and forth on his heels. His amused grin was beginning to irritate Brogan.

“How long have ye been smithy here?” Brogan asked.

“Three years now,” Iarainn replied. “Learned at me da’s knee, I did. I was his only child. Much to me mum’s vexation, he taught me all he knew.”

Brogan detected more than just a trace of pride in her voice. He could see it twinkling in her dark blue eyes. “Let me guess,” he said, returning her smile. “Yer mum would have preferred ye took up sewin’ or weavin’?”

Iarainn quirked one delicate brow. “Nay, she wanted me to be a fine horsewoman, like she was. Trained some of the best war horses in all the land, she did.”

Would the surprises within this clan never cease? A female smith? A woman who trained war horses?

Reginald decided then to laugh at Brogan’s befuddlement. “We be no’ like most clans,” he said.

That was quite apparent. Brogan looked down at the project she was currently working on. It appeared to be the beginning of a large cooking pot. “Besides cookin’ pots, do ye also make the weapons here?”

Her reply was nothing but a shrug of indifference. Reginald leaned in closer to her. “He can be trusted, Iarainn.”

With a dubious brow, she studied Brogan for a long while. “Be ye certain?” she asked Reginald, though she didn’t take her eyes off Brogan.

“He has just ordered the rebuildin’ of the wall,” Reginald told her.

Brogan took note of his relieved tone and glint in the man’s eyes.

“Why be ye wantin’ to do that?” she asked Brogan directly.

He felt quite certain this was a test of his character. “A keep without a wall or guard towers? Ye might as well just invite yer enemies in. ’Tis folly to believe none will attack when they’ve already done so in the past.”

Apparently pleased with his answer, she raised her voice. “I make mighty fine cookin’ pots, m’laird. As well as eatin’ knives and such. Mayhap ye would like to give yer new bride a gift? I have a few special pieces in back.”

Though her behavior was odd, his curiosity was too piqued now to turn away. Silently, he followed her and Reginald to the back of the building. She took a quick left turn and led them into a very small room. The floor was covered with rushes, but otherwise, it appeared empty.

Iarainn waited until both men were inside before closing the door behind them. Going to the far wall, she crouched low, and began to pull on one of the wide wooden boards that made up the wall.

“Right before the attack, Aymer had ordered the armaments removed from the armory,” Reginald explained. “He had a few of those men loyal to him, take them to a place of safekeepin’.”

Iarainn grunted her disproval. “An eejit if ever there be one,” she said with a good deal of disgust. “Whoever heard of keepin’ weapons in a ‘safe place’ away from one’s keep?”

Brogan stood in profound confusion and amazement. He’d been wondering the very same thing.

With the board now removed, Iarainn set it against the wall and stood. Purposefully, she blocked Brogan’s view of what lay behind the space. “I be no’ one to go against my laird’s orders. But fer the good of our people, I felt compelled to do just that.”

Brogan crossed his arms over his chest. “If ye be referrin’ to Aymer, he is no’ yer laird. Mairghread is.”

Relief washed over her, causing her shoulders to relax. “I be right glad to hear another voice what I have believed fer three long years now.”

“The safety of this clan, as well as me wife, is my main concern, Iarainn,” Brogan told her.

“And when Aymer returns?” she asked with a raised brow.

“With Mairghread as chief, it matters no’ what Aymer wants or believes,” he told her.

She cast another glance at Reginald before turning back to Brogan. “Be she willin’ now, to take on the role?”

Reginald replied before Brogan had a chance. “She will be willin’, now that she has a husband who will support her.”

“If word gets out to Aymer, ‘twould mean me neck in a hangman’s noose,” she told him.

“If word gets out about what?” Brogan asked, drawing her attention back to himself.

Warily, she looked to Reginald once more. He gave a quick nod of his head and a moment later, she stepped aside. “Of that.”

* * *

Brogan eyed each of them suspiciously for a short moment before curiosity got the best of him. Crouching low, and with his hand cautiously on the hilt of his dirk, he peered inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. But when they did?

“Jesu!” he exclaimed.

Dozens upon dozens of finely crafted swords lay within. Carefully placed on soft blankets, they took up most of the space. On the wall hung finely made bows. Next to them hung quivers filled with arrows.

“Were these the weapons taken away fer safekeeping?” he asked.

“Nay,” Iarainn replied. “Only Aymer and his men ken what happened to those.”

Brogan studied the weapons for a long moment before giving a shake of his head and pulling himself back up.

“I have to be verra careful in the makin’ of these,” Iarainn explained. “Fer if Aymer found out, I have no doubt he would take them. Then order me hanged.”

“Hanged?” Brogan asked incredulously. “Certainly ye jest?”

Iarainn and Reginald exchanged glances with one another. “After the removal of the wall and weapons, we put nothin’ past the man,” Iarainn said. While Reginald might not be willing to speak ill of his lady or her uncle, Iarainn was not thusly inclined.

“We must be careful, m’laird, fer Aymer has spies everywhere,” she told him as she replaced the wooden plank.

“I can assure ye, that yer secret is safe with me,” Brogan told her.